


Phoenix Still On Fire

by julytimes



Category: Avengers: Infinity War - Fandom, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), infinity war - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ashes Scene in Avengers: Infinity War Part 1, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, May 2019 is so far away, Ned Leeds - Freeform, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, POV Peter Parker, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark-centric, Whump, absolutely not Starker though you freaks, and needs therapy, and then peter denies it because he's a kid and kids think they're invincible, he tries to help because, if you squint but later on you dont need to squint because theyre just all there for eachother, irondad and spideyson, oh also Tony calling peter kid, so many new tags almost like i've been updating lol, the squad has been through alot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:17:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julytimes/pseuds/julytimes
Summary: Peter Parker doesn't understand why he is having dumb things like panic attacks and nightmares after the events on Titan. He figures that someone strong like Mr. Stark would never deal with stuff like that. So he pushes on, not wanting to let anyone down, not realizing that he does not have to tackle this alone.





	1. Bonfire

Peter Parker wasn’t sure if he would rather be on the Earth or out in space.

On one hand, Earth was his home. He knew where most of the US states were, wasn’t totally sure about the geography of Europe, only had a general idea about Asia, and if anyone asked him to identify a country in Africa, he would be totally lost. But at least he’d know what he could expect. He knew the chemical makeup of the air, the exact speed of gravity, and when and where the sun rose and set, and he understood the time zones. He knew that at any given time, Antarctica would be south, New York would be better than Boston, the subway would be three minutes late, and people wouldn’t spontaneously turn into dust.

If he had been given some form of heads up that he, Peter Parker, was most certainly going to disintegrate, he would have rather done so at home, or outside a bodega in Queens, or at a park in Europe, or on a street in Africa, or really anywhere on planet Earth. Instead, he had died an alien death on an alien planet and now some part of him felt stuck there and utterly disconnected from his pale blue home. And although he knew it happened on Earth too, he wasn’t here to see it. Although he knew that people on Earth —half of them, in fact— had experienced it, _he_ was the one who woke up light years away from anywhere familiar, choking on ash and tears and terror.

By the time he finally returned home, life had been resurrected and restored, just the same as he had left it. He could turn on the television to see talking heads, he could drive down the highway and keep driving and driving and know that there would always be another exit, another turn if he wanted. Or if he wanted, he could stay along the constant yellow streak of paint and drive on forever.

On the other hand, he wondered if he would rather deal with _whatever you would call what he was dealing with right now_ back on Titan. To keep it all there. Because on Earth, where most things are normal and familiar, things that were once normal and familiar became ardent and attacking and alien. It wasn’t the actual things, per se. Rather, it was the sensations that flooded his already-heightened senses, like how feet sinking into the sand on the beach jarred him back to when he faded away, feet first. Or like the smell of fire, which makes ash.  

Which was why Peter Parker ended up leaning against a tree, facing away from a massive, smoky bonfire that celebrated the end of the school year. He stood facing the darkness of the surrounding area, wanting to walk away and walk on his own while simultaneously not wanting to be alone. He was right on the edge where no one noticed, but where he was close enough to notice the others. He listened to the sounds of laughter and chatter and bottles clinking and tried to focus on people _being alive and not dying and not dying and not dying_ as he stared at the ground, kicking his right shoe against his left.

“Not your thing either?”

Peter glanced up at a girl standing near him in the dark at the edge. He vaguely knew her from school but had never learned her name.

"Probably won't be our thing for a while," she mused.

“Hunh?” Peter feigned confusion, but he was pretty sure he knew what she meant. He looked up to take her life in. Looked at her eyes move and her body shift with breath. Ironically, he hated that she had analyzed him, that she could just tell from his general demeanor that he was one of the ones who...

“Bonfires and smoke,” she drew out the point. “...and ash.”

“Hunh.” Peter grimaced and turned his head down. And although this affirmed her intuition, he was not now, not ever, going to be in the mood to have this discussion.

“Sucks,” the girl chuckled humorlessly, “for us, I mean. ‘Cause the whole bonfire thing was a bit of a summer rite of passage. Like lighting one up on the beach. Not exactly going to be doing that anymore, am I?”

Peter met her with silence, absolutely unwilling to host some nostalgic what-he-had-before kind of conversation, though it was a mental dialogue he had with himself constantly.

“I used to be excited for this season,” she continued. “Feels like a movie, like some Stand By Me bonding typa shit.”

“Good film.”

“Better song.”

“Debatable,” Peter shot back. Then he buried his face in his sweatshirt collar and groaned, both because it actually was a better movie and because the wind had shifted and smoke from the fire now drove towards them.

When he looked up again, the girl was standing straighter, suddenly looking stoned. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the campfire and motioned to a friend, who handed over a water bottle that wasn’t filled with water. The girl stood chokingly closing to the smoky fire. She took one swig and then another. Peter shivered all over, turned from her and the fire, and walked away.

-

Peter Parker wasn’t sure if his spidey sense told him that a panic attack was coming, or if his spidey sense caused the panic attack in the first place.

The thing about having a panic attack when you’re Spider-Man is that all senses are dialed up to eleven. So when his heart started to pump harder and harder for what felt like the eighteenth time this week, Peter looked around and over his shoulder, then over his shoulder again, trying to convince himself that his heart was just thumping because it wanted to, not because there was a threat.

_But what if I’m wrong and I’m trying to tell me something, like on Titan? Like how I just knew, I just knew, even before it happened._

_No, no, Peter, Peter calm down. Get your heart to slow the fuck down._

_But what if I’m just telling myself that because I’m naive?_

_Or, what if I’m telling myself that because panicking is counterproductive ‘cause it makes my heart beat even more, anyway?_

Despite all attempts to calm his heartbeat, blood pulsed behind his ears faster and louder. Peter reached out to the nearest solid thing, the edge of a building, anything, to help him catch his breath. With the other hand, he grabbed at his chest where it visibly moved up and down under two layers of clothing _proof of life I’m alive right now I’m good_. But his hands started to tremble and he couldn’t catch his breath and his heart pounded even faster, even harder. Peter closed his eyes tight and tried to focus on taking a deep breath but he couldn’t; his gasps were sharp and shallow and restricted.

_There’s something wrong here._

Then he started coughing. Nothing came out but he couldn’t take a breath because something was blocking his airway.

_There’s something in your lungs._

The trembling traveled down into his arms and legs and left him unsteady on his feet. He leaned more heavily on the wall but when he opened his eyes, his vision was tinted in black.

_See! You’re turning to ash, you’re fading to dust._

Peter was disoriented and fell back, hitting his head on whatever was around him. He couldn’t see clearly and that scared him even more so he screwed his eyes shut, but that didn’t help either because behind his eyes he saw stars and stars like a kaleidosco _pe that crumples and fades away on the edge and oh God, oh God. God, it’s happening you’re dying, this is what death feels like, and you’re going to die alone and blind and in so much fucking pain you’re going to die alone with your body shredding and throat burning on ash and dust and—_

“Kid?!”

_Tony._

Peter let the world go black.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been lurking on AO3 for the past six years of my life without posting anything more than guest kudos. But I couldn't shake this rich idea for a fic out of my head so here we are. This is super, super first draft (also my first time writing literally anything creative and putting it on the internet) so if you've got any constructive criticism or catch any glaring errors, please let me know! 
> 
> x July


	2. Funhouse

Peter Parker wasn’t sure if he would rather be asleep or awake. He feels like he is dying either way.

Before Titan, he always wished that he could remember his dreams. Sure, he could recall three or four really cool, vivid ones. Those were the kinds of dreams that he would try to fall back asleep to finish but his thoughts raced too much for him to do so. He’d meander to the kitchen to see Aunt May, and he’d try not to act so childishly excited while recounting the dream to her. She would try to contain herself for his sake, but she never could for too long before she just squeezed him tight because he was _so dang precious._

Those were the kinds of dreams that he would want to write down, but couldn’t actually force himself to pick up a pencil and paper that early in the morning. So he’d tell himself he would remember —if the dream was shocking or vivid enough, he did. Once, he woke up in the middle of the night from an incredible dream where he could actually control his actions. Groggily, he reached for his phone and dictated as much detail as he could remember about events that never happened. The resulting voice memo was over forty minutes long. Now, Peter has more vivid dreams than he wants to have, and he’s never able control the outcome of his death. Nothing new there.

As much as Peter tells himself that his body is _right here, right here and whole and solid_ , his mind is still there. It has happened twice that Peter legitimately could not discern if he was asleep or awake because he felt actual, physical pain. As it turns out, he was asleep both times. Living through dying once was hard enough; Peter sometimes found himself being fearful of going to sleep at night. And sometimes, some weeks more often than not, a nightmarish sleep bled into waking life.

But in a comparison, being awake sometimes felt like a bit of a horrific fun-house to Peter. He could never tell what lurked around corners that would unwittingly take control of his body and mind; he felt almost possessed during panic attacks, not having even a semblance of control. As he walked around the house of mirrors, he came to realize that no matter where he looked, all he saw was distorted versions of his original self.

So Peter made the decision to druggily clamor his way out of darkness. _He_ was here; _he_ had called him "kid" and God, how Peter needed him right now, though he could never convince himself to say it.

“Misserark… misserstark."

He could make out voices that seemed quite far away.

“What’s he saying?”

“I haven’t the slightest.”

“Should we slap him?”

“Misser?—” Peter cracked open his eyes to two men leaning in uncomfortably close to his face. “—Ah! Mr. Stark!”

Both men paused, looked at each other, and began to guffaw. While the fatter of the two men kept on hooting, the second, more wiry man chortled, “If my last name wa’ Stark, do ya _really_ think I be bothered wit’ some drunk-ass kid on ‘is side a town?”

“I’m —I’m not," Peter stammered, "I haven’t been drinking much, I mean, of anything. I swear!”

The fatter man blew out a long breath and wiped his eyes like that laugh was the most exercise he had undertaken in a while. “We ain’t cops. We’re just standing over there ‘avin a smoke.”

“You damn near cracked your skull open an’ we just making sure you’re alright.”

“Speaking of,” the fatter man reached into his jacket pocket, “you want one to calm yourself?”

Peter retracted from the cigarette like it had teeth that were already snapping at him.

“Your loss,” the wiry man shrugged, gesturing for the pack and a light. Peter's eyes darted to the offending object between the wiry man's teeth where it frothed at the mouth.

“Ya sure? One time offer. Really settles out the jitters on the nerves.”

The wiry man stepped closer and looked into his eyes as if testing the size of his pupils. Peter looked him square in the face and opened his mouth in protest that he was _not_ on any kind of substance when the man said, “You’re geeking out, kid.”

Peter couldn’t turn away quick enough; the cigarette smoke had come blasting into his face, an outright attack on his senses. His vision jumped.

 _There’s something blocking my lungs, something in my chest, I taste ash, there’s ash pooling in my throat. Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good. I don’t know_ — _I don’t know what’s happening._

Peter turned away, leaned against a wall, and dry heaved.

“You pass out and nearly puke,” the wiry man chuckled sarcastically, “sure you ain’t been drinking.”

The men got out up and started to walk away as Peter shut his eyes and held his stomach in.

“Kid thought I was Tony Stark.”

“Yeah, and I’m Black Widow.”

“You’re more of a Hulk.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you more.”

As their laughter died away, Peter felt it coming at the base of his throat. Shaky legs carried him off the main street and into the closest alley. There, on the back stoop of a failing corner store, Peter Parker felt utterly worthless and weak because he was throwing up for no reason other than that he smelled cigarette smoke.  

“Come on, come on, you’ve got this. Come on, _breathe_ , please, please.” In between stringy heaves of stomach acid, he begged. “You gotta breathe, come on, just breathe. It won’t always be like this. Come on, just breathe, please calm down. Please. Come on, _please_.”

When he was done, he leaned back, shivering, rubbing his arms and then his legs and then his arms again. He wiped his mouth, pulled his hoodie over sweat-drenched hair, and leaned against the wall. Peter closed his eyes, relishing in a normal heartbeat.

-

“Hey.”

“Hey. You.”

“Little asshole in the hoodie.”

Peter started awake, looking up to see a man that was obviously the convenience store owner. The guy poked him with a broom, “Get up.”

“Hey!” Peter scrambled up and looked at the guy, then the broom, then back to the guy accusingly.

The man shrugged, “You’ve been out here for awhile. I’m closing shop and don’t want loiterers bringing your drugs and whatever you’re around ‘round here.”

“No, sir, I don’t do drugs — wait, wait, you’re closing? Like, already? It’s not even midnight. I mean that’s late of course but it seems, to me, to be a bit early for a corner store…”

“New priorities, new hours. After everything, I mean. Er... I wanna get back to the family.” The owner hesitated awkwardly, unsure how exactly to step around New York's impersonal boundaries. “Get home to yours… or something. Or whatever you want to do.” He stood there for a moment, fiddling with the broom. “Just don’t do it on my damn stoop.” He hastily stepped inside and slammed the door, locking the empathetic encounter with a stranger outside.

- 

Like most kids who want to avoid their guardians at night, Peter climbed in through the window. But like the very few guardians who know their children well, Aunt May was sitting on his bed when Peter arrived.

“Oh, uh, hey… Aunt May.”

He leaned against the still-open window. She cocked an eyebrow and let Peter marinate in the accusing silence for a beat.

May asked, deadpan, “Should I call a mechanic?”

“Hunh?”

“A mechanic. For the front door. Since it seems to be broken.”

“Oh! I just wanted to, ya know, test out the ol’ webs. Make sure they’re oiled up. Well, not oiled, obviously,” Peter floundered. “But you know it wouldn’t really be a mechanic, per se, it would be more of a handyman.”

“What?”

“To fix the front door.”

“The door isn’t broken, Peter.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you use it?!” she exclaimed, exasperated.

Peter’s face suddenly hardened. “Maybe because I didn’t want to have this exact conversation. Maybe because I just wanted to go straight to bed without you reading me the riot act like you always do. That sound about right?”

May stared at him in hurt for what felt like an eternity before turning and walking out of the room. The moment she was out of sight, Peter’s tough guy act dropped and he drew his hands to his face. He debated with himself for a brief moment before resigning. And with an “Ah, fuck,” he followed her out of the room.

“Jeez, Aunt May, you know I didn’t mean that,” Peter admitted as he sank down onto the living room couch next to her. "I’m sorry, I just really wanted to go to bed. I’m really just really tired.”

He leaned his head on her shoulder as May ran her hands through his hair. “I know, baby. I know you’re tired.”

They sat there for a few moments; Peter relished in the silent comfort and May searched for the right words. “I just know that tonight, you were out with your friends." Immediately, Peter picked up his head and shook out his hair. May rushed to assure, "—which is totally normal by the way. And I’m proud, I’m proud of you, Peter.” She paused. Peter suppressed a groan when he realized that she was trying to place china words carefully. “It’s just, I know that it was… at a bonfire… and I know…” Peter blankly stared past her. “I know that sometimes that stuff is… that stuff might…” She was at a loss for what to say and how to say it. She wasn’t sure what he was looking at, or if he was looking at anything at all. She wasn’t even sure if it was better to try and have this conversation, or if she should let him come to her. But what she feared most was both of them ignoring it, and of her child spiraling out of control without even knowing that his wings were on fire.

“It was fine, Aunt May.” Peter didn’t meet her eyes. “If it was anything other than fine, I would tell you. You know I would.”

May didn’t protest when Peter gave her a kiss on the cheek, rose, and went back to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

-

When he finally lowered himself into bed, pulled up the covers, and stopped moving, Peter deeply exhaled. He was so tired he could have slept for days.

_Realistically, not days. But what does it matter? Time is relative. When you died, you were an insane amount of lightyears away. But you got back instantly when Tony Stark carried you through a wormhole that a wizard created on Titan._

Peter audibly groaned at his own intrusive thoughts. Then he gave a laugh at the fact that he groaned at a thought. Then he laughed again that he was laughing at a voice in his head; he figured he was going insane.

He flipped his covers off his chest, suddenly feeling a little too hot.

_It’s summertime, it’s normal to sweat._

_Ah, but this is a cold sweat._

He kicked his legs, effectively getting all the covers off the bed. But he found, unfortunately, that the vicious feedback loop had already begun.

Peter began to think about how he felt anxiety and a simultaneous inability to do something about it or even decide what to do in the first place. He flipped his pillow and flipped onto his stomach when he began to realize that he was feeling panic about the lack of control of his situation as a whole. This panicked him even more because there was nothing worse than having your body spiral ~~_to dust_~~ out of control and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He turned over again and grabbed the pillow out from under his head and pulled it to his face, gripping-ungripping-gripping-ungripping it hard, trying to get some semblance of control over some form of feeling, as he couldn’t do a thing about the gaping  ~~ _wormhole_~~ holethat felt like it was collapsing in on itself at the base of his chest.

As he grew angrier and angrier with himself that he couldn’t just stop himself from ~~_falling into a trillion little pieces_~~ having a stupid fucking panic attack, he began to feel as if everything was closing in on him. He sat up and threw away the pillow and pulled his knees to his chest and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. Even though he was so claustrophobic and burning up with such incredible energy, he was utterly, utterly empty.

Peter Parker couldn’t tell if he was feeling too much or nothing at all.

“Misserstark... Mister Stark”

_You’re weak. You’re so fucking weak, you are so goddamn unbelievably weak. Don’t burden him with this._

“Please…”

_I can’t do this alone._

Peter pushed the pillow away, arched his back, and jumped up to lean against the open window. He looked out and down, down the eight stories.

_He won’t want to deal with you._

A whimper bubbled in his throat when he realized he hadn't yet convinced himself to shoot a web when he jumped.

_I need to see him._

“Fuck. Fuck _._ ” He climbed onto the window sill shaking, burning up, and freezing cold. He resigned, “ _Fuck_ , fine," and jumped into the night.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, uploading the first draft but I'm definitely going to go back and edit it a bit more. I feel like I'm almost rushing for Peter to get to Tony/not sure if I love this chapter because it's dialogue-heavy with much less description... let me know! Thanks for coming back!!
> 
> July


	3. Normal

Peter Parker wasn’t sure how he got here.

First off, he literally wasn’t sure how he got here: the roof of Stark Tower. Sometimes he wondered if he had somehow gained the power of teleportation. He didn’t totally see how disintegrating and then resurrecting could somehow give him such abilities, but he was continuously finding himself in places while totally forgetting how he got there. _How did he get here?_ He found himself once again as disoriented as when he had left the bonfire and ended up on 18th Street, or when he had left Titan and ended up on Earth. Though he was informed that the latter occurrence was due to the mystical portal-making powers of a colleague of Dr. Strange, it was still totally insane to be one place and then suddenly wake up from an autopilot-stupor in a totally different area.

Not like he has Dr. Strange’s glowy mind portal power, though such an improvement would be an awesome addition to his suit. Sometimes, Peter imagines this as Spider-Man 4.0: Glo-Spidey. He pictures himself swinging off of a building before releasing his web entirely. The crowd screams as he dramatically free falls at near terminal velocity until —“ _at the last second!_ ,” as the front page of the New York Times would report— the wunderspider would simultaneously backflip and swish his hands to create a glow portal in the middle of 55th Street. He’s an action thriller, an absolute Bruce Willis-level smash hit. 2Swole2Spidey or 2Spidey2Stop or 2Spidey2Man; if he had a movie just for him, Peter Parker, what would the title be? He can’t decide.

“Thank you, thank you.” Peter politely bows to his mental audience. “It was really no big deal, just here at your service, the newest Avenger, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Ma—…”

_“Can’t you just be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?”_

_“I can’t be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if there’s no neighborhood.”_

_Peter finds himself in a situation much greater than himself. He knows he asked for this he knows he put himself here but he’s terrified as he’s grabbing on, holding on, holding on to the alien ship, holding on to a sense of calm as he sees how very very far away from Earth it -and he- and going, holding on to the Guardians so they don’t float away into space, holding onto Tony’s shoulders while he desperately pleading for his life that he knows deep down Tony can’t give him but he asks anyways because he’s never felt unsafe when he’s with him, holding, grasping, at the dusty ground of Titan before his fingers start to turn to dust themselv—_

Peter coughed once and then again and again. He coughed until he felt a burn in his throat and his chest - a good burn, one that told him that his throat and his chest existed.

 _Airway clear, nothing to fear_.

Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. Still, his fingers tingle. He leans against a wall and grips and ungrips his hands but it doesn’t help. He can feel them but can’t seem to establish in his brain the object permanence of him _being here_. Grip. Ungrip. Nothing. Grip. Ungrip. Grip-ungrip-grip-ungrip-grip-ungrip—“Fuck!” Peter flips to face the wall he was leaning on and beings to lash it at lighting speed. He must have gotten 25 punches in when he drops back and falls to the ground, hard.

He looks at his hands which have become a bloody and mangled mess. Slowly scootches back against the wall and gingerly holds them to his chest as if he was holding a kitten. “Ow…” he whimpers quietly, though some part of him is relieved to see the blood start to flow, to see that it’s still inside of his. And in a sense, it is relieving to feel the pain reverberate up his hands and wrists and forearms because he is made acutely aware that his hands and wrists and forearms are there, too.

_We’re good to go. We’re chill, we’re good. We’re fine. We’re here._

But again, Peter Parker still wasn’t sure how he got here: the point where he has to punch a concrete wall just to feel something real. He wrings out his hands and rethinks, _But for real, how did I get here?_ Peter figures that his autopilot tells him that it’s somewhat comforting just to be here. Since he’s come back to life and come back to Earth and come back into being Peter Parker, Local High Schooler™, he’s found that even though he’s physically reentered the world, his mentality it’s 100% at 11/10 fight mode. Being here feels like being at work if you could call being an Avenger work, and if you could call Peter an Avenger at all since all he’s done is blow up the National Monument, blow up the Hudson Ferry, blow up the donut alien ship, and then blow into a trillion little pieces.

It felt normal here; abnormality is the new normal for Peter Parker. Because when Peter thinks of normal, he thinks about the new, post-Titan normal. He thinks about the constant feeling of being alone and isolated and just overall different. He thinks about his first night home from space and how he never thought it would be possible to be surrounded by his closest friends and feel more alone than ever. So Peter has tried to accept the fact that another new normality for him was swinging up to Stark Tower for a brief moment of reset. He always wishes he could build up the guts to actually talk to Tony about this whole thing, but he’s figured that he's caused enough damage already and doesn't see what dumb things like panic attacks and nightmares should be problems worthy of Tony Stark.

  
So when he did dedicate some thought to it, he equated his autopilot to texting while walking in an area familiar to him. He could start texting on at school street and then look up and suddenly realize that he’s already home without ever looking up once from the conversation with MJ or Ned or… _Ned!_

“Ah, jeez,” Peter breathed. He had _completely_ forgotten to text Ned, who hadn’t been able to make it tonight but had reminded Peter about 8 billion times to let him know how the bonfire went.

He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone and hissed as his damaged hands brushed up against his jeans. He wrung out his hands —“Ah, ah, ow, jeez” —which unexpectedly splattered blood a bit and counterproductively hurt a lot. But then Peter’s attention was drawn to his phone screen which lit up with unread messages; his little heart warmed when he saw that 5 of those were from his best friend checking in on him throughout the night.

 

 **Ned >>** yo how is it

 **Ned >>** Im so mad I cant be there but i still hope its good? is it?

 **Ned >>** rumor has it Liz might b back to see friends is she there?

 **Ned >>** dude how you doing

 **Ned >>** at least him me with a txt when ur home or u r grounded

 

Peter laughed and started to reply, knowing Ned would most definitely be up before him and read it in the morning.

 

 **To: Ned <<** hello mom ty for your care. Im safe no worries.

Just as Peter began to tuck away his phone, it vibrated again.

 **Ned >>** thank u for finally responding my sweet child

 **To: Ned <<** what why are you up right now hahahh

 

Then Peter had the horrible idea that he was being a bother.

 

 **To: Ned <<** pls tell me I didnt wake you up

 **To: Ned <<** if so I really didnt mean to

 **To: Ned << **Ned dude im sorry

 **To: Ned <<** I guess all these txts arent helping if youre trying to go back to sleep hahah

 

Peter hit his phone against his forehead repeatedly, “Why am I like this.”

 

 **Ned >>** no actually I was up anyways binging the new szn of unbreakable kimmy schmidt  
**Ned >>** its actually really good i think you would enjoy  
**Ned >>** its also about an overly happy dweeb who comes back to earth after a catastrophic event

 

Peter hardly had the time to finish reading the last text when his phone rang. He looked over his shoulder before picking up the phone, “Ned, dude, why are you up?” 

“I told you,” Ned replied with a whisper, “I’m on Netflix which, by the way, my mom would kill me that I’m still up even though it’s the summer. The lady is so into Circadian rhythms and all this mumbo jumbo type whatever. But dude, I’m sorry about that text I know you just had the whole bonfire thing tonight and I can't really tell if it’s funny or if it’s not I mean I feel like I’ve never really known how to be serious you know I just make dumbass jokes like one time my Chinese neighbor’s cat died and I asked if she was gonna be having a big dinner that night which, for the record, was totally uncool of me on a few levels but-- ”

“Ned! It’s funny, Ned, you’re fine, it’s all fine. _Chill_.” Peter took a huge breath in and a huge breath out; Ned followed his lead. “Chill.”

Ned paused.

“...you sure?" 

“Yeah, I’m sure, I’m good, Ned.”

“Great. Good. Cause we’re supposed to be on the lookout for friends right now, or whatever, says the school board during one of eighty assemblies we’ve had since, ya know, the _incident_. Supposed to be looking out for drinking issues and suicidal tendencies and stuff and whatever.”

“Don’t you think me being suicidal would be a little counterproductive.”

“Hunh? Wait, what? Are you?”

“What? No, Ned. No, I’m not. Like, if I came back from the dead why would I want to be dead,” Peter gestured dramatically as if Ned could see over the phone, “ _again.._.”

“Oh. True. Good point.”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly the school board is treating this whole this as an ongoing event y’know. Oh, dude! You missed this - it was a riot.” Ned started to chuckle a bit as he talked, “So you know how all the adults used to freak about the stock market back when we were, like, 8? And they used to do little quote-unquote “de-stressors” in middle school and what not?”

“Y’mean cause people’s parents were, oh I dunno, being foreclosed on?”

“Yeah that, whatever, regardless. _So_ , the point being, while you were out, so to, as they put it, ‘take the stress off,’ ”  Peter can practically hear Ned making air quotes from his dripping sarcasm. “So they, they —oh this is gold.” Ned really started to laugh.

Peter groaned, “Oh, my goodness.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ned gasped through laughter. “Well, so, basically, the _beautiful_ school administration decided to have this thing…” Though Peter was impatient frustrated, he was starting to chuckle too, though more at Ned’s laughter than at the story itself.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ned tried to continue. “They had this thing called… it was literally called... Fun Day!”

The breath Ned tried to take to calm himself was audible. Peter started to crack up.

“Sorry, sorry. _So anyways…_ this was so tapped. You show up to homeroom, right. And they give us a literal 3-foot by 3-inch piece of cloth.” Ned snorted in an effort to restrain himself.

Peter chortled sarcastically, “Are you high?”

“Look, they didn’t explain what was going on. So we’re all just sitting there, right. They gave us some red, white n’ blue markers, had us color this thing, this cloth, in. They didn't explain a thing. And then they're like, they're like.. ‘Put on your’—” Ned started wheezing at this point, which really made Peter laugh.

“Ned!”

“I’m sorry, okay! So, so they’re like, ‘Put on your spirit bandana,’ which is apparently what we made —HOO my abs right now!”

“Your only workout of the year.”

“Dude!”

“Finish the story!”

“HAH so they told us to put on our, our _spirit bandanas_ and they made us walk up the street to the field. Keep in mind this is the hottest frickin day of the year, literally 108 degrees practically. Literally, none of us were prepared to be outside. I've never had such a heat stroke.”

“Classic.”

“And they didn't bring any water. And there was only one freeze pop for every student.” Both boys were crying laughing. “So you had to friggin' ration out your freeze pop for the entire day. And -wheeze- all it was -wheeze- was some temporary tats and some rock band that consisted of some very odd kids from the middle school. Whew! So strange...” Ned holds his stomach.

When they both calm down a little, Peter looked up at him, “so is that it?”

“Well, we can’t all swing around stringing up bike thieves like you can, Spiderling!”

“It’s Spiderman! The amazing, the fantastic…”

They sang in hushed synchronized chorus: “Spidermannnnn!” Then they both let out a long, tired sigh.

Ned paused before he asked quietly, “You good tonight, Pete? Like you’re home and everything”

“Yeah, Ned.” Peter shook his head, trying to get the burn of guilt off his cheeks as if Ned could see. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright, well, if you’re cool, I’m asleep.”

“I second that motion.”

Ned laughed, “‘Night, Pete.”

Peter smiled, “‘Night.”

Peter ended the call, put the phone down next to him, pulled his knees closer to his chest, and rested his head on his arms. He sat there for awhile, taking in both the moments of warm laughter and the sensation of cool concrete pressing steadily against his spine. Though the rush and nip of the wind sent shivers down his spine, he relished in the sensation of having a spine at all. The uncomfortableness was surprisingly grounding for him, though it scared him slightly that he found the most comfort in extreme situations.

“So are you gonna sleep out here?” As if stung, Peter jumped up and whipped around, bloody hands instinctively flying up in a fighting stance. There, illuminated by the city lights and leaning against the door frame was none other than Tony Stark dressed in his classic insomniac outfit of a t-shirt, sweatpants, and exhaustion. “Cause if you’re planning on it, I can drag out a futon.”

Peter stood there, just as speechless as the first day he had met Tony and just as shameful as the first day he had let him down.

“At ease,” chuckled Tony tightly, though his face showed deep concern. "You know, typically, most people don't take kindly to strange preteens hanging out on their rooftops in the wee hours of the morning."

Tony's brown creased when his usual humor didn't land; Peter looked at the ground, face bright red and apologetic.

"As I said before," Tony continued quickly, "I could go through the effort of dragging a couch out here for you..." he paused, hoping Peter would look up. He didn't.

"Or," Tony said slowly, hopefully, "You could come in…”

In any other situation, it would have been absolutely normal that moment, and practically instinctual, for Peter to accept any invitation from Tony Stark. But despite the fact that in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to step into Tony's house and arms, this was a new Peter, with a new normal, and in that moment, he stood frozen as if the slightest movement towards comfort would make him fade away again. 

But unbeknownst to Peter, Tony had a long relationship with trauma. So he slowly approached the shivering, bleeding boy standing outside his door, wrapped a strong arm around his shoulder, and led him inside.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, even though she's asleep right now and hasn't had time to read this chapter, so many blessings to inshadowsoflove, my beta reader! And thank you so, so much to all of you for all your encouragement! Per usual, I'm not in love with this but I wanted to get something uploaded to you guys without rushing the story along. But hey, I think we're finally at that milestone that everyone wants to be at: Tony has entered the picture.
> 
> I hope everyone has an incredible rest of your day/night and you like this chapter! PS, chapter 4 is already halfway written so it'll be a quicker update, I swear. I'm sorry it took so long but I promise that I'm going to put myself on a schedule to update at the very least once a week, if not twice.


End file.
